


Extenuating Circumstances

by phoenixflight



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Bisexuality, Gay Bar, M/M, Making Out, Undercover, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 16:44:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16768993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixflight/pseuds/phoenixflight
Summary: Peter and Neal go undercover at a gay bar. Peterknewthis was a bad idea.





	Extenuating Circumstances

**Author's Note:**

> How the fuck did I end up in this fandom? Is this fandom even still alive?  
> It's all [niniblack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/niniblack/pseuds/niniblack)'s fault.

“Elizabeth, do you know if I still have those black jean?” he called.

“The ones that make your ass look great?” El called. “Are you kidding, why would I get rid of those?”

Peter lifted a stack of slacks out of the drawer. “Do you know where they are?”

“Try the bottom drawer on the left.” Elizabeth poked her head out of the bathroom, face half made up. “What’s the occasion?”

“Undercover,” Peter grunted. “I’ll be out late tonight, no need to make dinner.”

“Nightclub?”

“Gay bar.” He pulled the jeans out of the bottom drawer. “Ah-ha.”

El frowned. “You can’t wear those boxers.”

Peter froze, one leg in the jeans. “Why not?”

“To a gay bar? You’d be made as a cop in under thirty seconds.”

“I’m... not planning to take my pants off, El,” he said slowly. “No one is going to see my boxers.”

She sighed heavily, as if he were being slow. “The waistband is going to show above your jeans. Disguise is in the details, Peter. Wear a pair of those Calvin Kleins I got you a couple of years ago.” That you never wear, she didn’t add.

“Briefs are uncomfortable,” he grumbled, digging in the underwear drawer.

“I’m confident your balls will survive the night,” she told him. “What shirt are you wearing?”

“Just something black.”

“Hmmm.” She edged past him to the dresser as he changed his underwear and tugged the jeans back up. They were a very tight fit, tighter than he remembered. Forget the briefs, they’d better catch this guy fast or the jeans were going to strangle his balls all on their own. “Try this.” El shoved a handful of black fabric into his hand. When he shook it out, he saw it was a tee shirt, one of hers.

“This isn’t going to fit me,” he said dubiously.

“That’s the point darling. I think it’ll look just fine.”

He eyed it uncertainly, but found the fabric was stretchier than expected and he was actually able to get it on. It was… a plain black v-neck. It was very tight. It was clearly a woman’s shirt in a way that he couldn’t articulate. And it rode high enough to show the waistband of his briefs with the Calvin Klein logo, and a narrow sliver of his hipbones. Elizabeth beamed. “Perfect.” He swallowed and tried not to think about what his team was going to say. Or Neal. Fucking hell,  _ Neal. _

Peter kept his FBI jacket on and zipped while the team convened at the office and divvied up placements, back-up, and surveillance. They were finishing up, ready to go except for their other undercover operative. Neal was running unusually late, even for him. Peter had just opened his mouth to say, “Someone call Caffrey,” when the door to the conference room opened and Neal walked in. 

Everyone looked up and someone wolf whistled. Peter’s mouth went suddenly dry and he felt a shivery wave of  _ oh fuck _ go through his stomach. 

Neal was wearing dark-washed jeans that might as well have been painted on, and a white tee-shirt so flimsy and transparent that Peter could see every shift in the muscles of his abdomen, not to mention his small dark nipples, standing up against the fabric. Peter’s dick made a concerted effort to get interested, which was screamingly uncomfortable in the tight confines of his own jeans. He swore silently and vehemently to himself. This was a  _ terrible _ idea, he’d known since Neal first suggested it, but it made sense for the op and he’d had no excuse to veto it without sounding a) like a homophobe or b) like a married man dangerously attracted to his coworker who also was a felon and legally under Peter’s supervision. 

Peter thanked God for his poker face and grunted, “You’re late.”

“Perfection takes time, Peter.” Neal looked him up and down in turn, which Peter tried not to feel turned on by, and raised his eyebrows. “Nice disguise. Very subtle. The big FBI letters really complete the look.” 

Peter shook his head, forcing himself to look away, and said, “Let’s move, everybody.” 

Their mark was a Wall Street mogul, Andrew Vivari, who was suspected of insider trading and liked to meet contacts in upscale gay bars across Manhattan. The utility van was parked across the street from his current favorite haunt. 

“Are we all in place?” Peter asked for the fourth time. 

“Yes,” Diana repeated. “Except for the bugs and your disguise.” 

“I’m starting to think you’re holding out on us,” Neal drawled. 

“Ok. Ok.” Peter shucked off the jacket fast, like ripping off a band-aid. This time it was Neal who whistled, and Peter felt the back of his neck flush. Jones was wide-eyed, biting back a smile, and even Diana looked impressed. 

Jones eyed his shirt. “I’m not sure I can hide a bug under that without it being visible.” He cut his eyes over to Neal. “And I  _ definitely _ can’t hide a mic under that.” 

“Ahead of you Jones,” Diana said. “We’re using the watches. Neal told me there wouldn’t be room under his shirt.” 

“The watches?” Peter frowned. The bugged watches were expensive-look professional wear. “You’re sure they’re not going to look out of place?” 

Neal flashed his teeth and held out his arm. “Trust me.” 

Acquiescing, Peter strapped the watch onto his wrist, trying to ignore how hot and soft Neal’s skin was beneath his fingers over his pulse point as he fastened the buckle. When he stood back he had to admit Neal was right - of  _ course _ he was. The watch, which looked at home with Neal’s usual fitted suits, changed his look from  _ hot boy on the prowl _ to  _ hot boy with a lucrative day job on the prowl _ . Peter didn’t know much about the gay club scene, having never been a club person of any description, but he imagined that money added sex appeal here, as everywhere. He strapped on his own quickly. 

As they slipped out of the van and crossed the street, Peter checked his pockets. Wad of cash and fake ID, like a teenager. No badge, no wallet. Neither would fit. Neal ran a hand through his hair, shaking it out of its perfect style. 

“What are you doing?” Peter asked. 

“Getting in character.” Neal raised an eyebrow. His hair managed to be artfully and suggestively tousled rather than just messy. 

“Right. We’re looking for Vivari but not making an approach,” Peter said, more to distract himself than because he thought Neal needed a reminder. “Talk to regulars, see if we can get an ID on anyone he talks to. If something goes wrong, the extraction phrase is  _ dry martini.” _

Neal halted a few steps behind him, in the subtle glow of the neon from the club sign. “Peter. Relax. I’m a big boy, I can remember my safeword.” As Peter spluttered he slid past him into the foyer of the club, leaving the sound of his laughter and a faint whiff of familiar cologne. 

A couple of folded bills slipped to the bouncer got them inside with a smile and a nod, and Peter automatically checked the exits and canvased the room. The main door behind them; a doorway behind the bar, presumably staff only; a doorway leading to a lit corridor, in contrast to the dim, purple and white mood lights of the main room - bathrooms probably; and an unmarked door on the far side of the dance floor, closed. It was still early in the evening for a place like this, but there were two dozen people in the main room, drinking at the bar and a few couples on the dance floor, swaying to the music.

“Stay together or split up?” Neal murmured. 

“Split up,” Peter returned under his breath. It wasn’t imperative that they not be seen together, but they could cover more ground separately, and the whole farce with the tight pants and obscene tee-shirts was more useful if you looked single. Peter squared his shoulders. This couldn’t be any more awkward than pretending to be a massage therapist. He ordered himself a whiskey on the rocks and sipped it at the bar. Business was slow, and he managed to strike up a conversation with the bartender, a young man with blue hair, tattoos, and a lip piercing. 

Peter’s cover was an accountant recently moved from Boston, not familiar with the New York scene. The bartender accepted this and cheerfully answered his questions about the club. “Oh, this is pretty normal for eight o’clock,” he said, muddling a mojito. “It’ll pick up in a couple of hours.” 

“You get a lot of regulars? Or is it mostly...” he waved a hand. What did Bostonians think about New York anyway? “Tourists?” 

“No, this place is nice like that. We don’t do live shows, events and stuff, so we don’t get a lot of folks from out of town. Or the other kind of tourist.” He wrinkled his nose, hands deft with the jigger. “You know. Gawkers.” 

“That’s nice. Hard to get to know people otherwise.”

“Oh yeah. There’s plenty of people who are here every week.” The bartender poured the drink with a flourish and topped it with a sprig of mint. “Always new faces though too.” He shot Peter a grin, and added, “Never hurts to see a new kind of handsome.” Peter wondered if flirting with the customers was part of the job description, or just recreational. 

There was a soft but step behind him and he felt the bartender's attention shift. Neal slid onto a bar stool two seats down. “Gin and tonic,” he said, and then, “Oh hey! Nice ink.” 

“Thanks!” The bartender extended his arm, twisting it to display the merman tattooed there. “One of my best friends did it.” 

“Really? That’s so cool. Oh man, the texturing on the tail is amazing.” Neal put his fingers on the bartender’s wrist as he examined it. Peter noticed, amusement mixing with something sour, that the bartender’s posture had changed - leaning in, head tilted, expression intent and interested. So  _ this _ was recreational flirting. 

Swiveling around on his stool to face the room, Peter left them to it; maybe Neal would get something out of the bartender that he hadn’t.

A skinny young man sidled up next to him, leaning against the bar. “Hey.” He was almost a full head shorter than Peter, wearing a blue tank top with the word  _ FLAWLESS  _ picked out on it in rhinestones. 

“I haven't seen you around,” the man said, slouching against the bar to show off his long torso.

Peter was rusty but it was easy enough to recognize the same kind of look that the bartender was currently giving Neal. “New in town,” Peter agreed. “Just moved from Boston.” 

“No shit? I'm from Somerville.” His eyes stood out distinctly, very blue. Peter realized he was wearing eyeliner and felt a jolt of deja vu as he thought of El putting on her own that morning. “My name’s Toby. What can I call you?” 

“I'm Sam,” said Peter, the name on his ID. 

Toby bit his bottom lip, and looked at him through his eyelashes with a thoughtful, calculating look that reminded Peter uncannily of Neal. The eyeliner made his eyes truly startling. “So, Sam,” he said. “If I buy you a drink will you let me call you Daddy?”

Peter choked on a sip of whiskey, and spluttered, throat burning. He was still coughing, trying not to think about Diana and Jones in the van, when he felt a warm hand on his back and heard Neal’s voice close to his ear, but not speaking to him. “It’s not you. The whole open relationship thing is pretty new to him, he still gets jumpy when someone hits on him in front of me.” Peter wheezed, face burning. 

“Aw, that’s sweet,” Toby said, leaning back and eyeing the two of them. The bartender slid a glass of water toward him and Peter drank gratefully. “How long have you two been together?” 

“Oh we’ve known each other for years, but we’ve been together the last six months or so. And just between you and me,” Neal leaned over toward Toby, lowering his voice, “He’s more of a sir than a daddy.” 

Peter set his glass down hard on the bar. “Bathroom,” he grunted, sliding off the stool and heading for the lit doorway to the corridor. His heart was beating hard, face hot. 

In the bathroom he took the opportunity to scan for their suspect, but no sign of Vivari at the urinals. Washing his hands, Peter stared at his reflection in the mirror, the harsh bathroom lights showing the wrinkles around his eyes, the gray beginning in his hair, and tried not to think about the teasing lilt of Neal’s voice around the word  _ daddy. _ He took three deep breaths and told himself it was something he’d never wanted to hear and never wanted to hear again. 

He stepped out into the corridor to find Neal leaning against the wall opposite the door. He grinned. “Hey daddy.” 

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring the warm jolt in his stomach. “Neal,” he began, warningly. 

Neal raised his hands in surrender. “A good con is all things to all people, that’s all I’m saying.” His eyes were sparkling with amusement. 

“I’m not a con,” Peter growled. “I’m an agent on the job, so excuse me if I was a little thrown by being propositioned by a complete stranger.” 

“You mean you put on those pants and those briefs to go to a gay bar and didn’t expect to get propositioned?” Neal was laughing at him.

“Let’s just get back in there and back to work.” He turned his back, stalking down the corridor toward the music. 

“Sure thing.” There was a pause. Peter could hear the suppressed laughter in Neal’s tone, his shoulders tensing for what he knew was coming next. “...daddy.” 

The club got more crowded as the night wore on, with no sign of Vivari. Peter and Neal split up again, making slow circuits of the room. The dance floor filled up as midnight approached, and the throb of the music increased in volume. Peter could feel a headache beginning in his temples. 

He made a polite excuse to the middle aged banker in a sequined tube top that he was chatting with, and drifted off, scanning the room methodically - looking for their mark, and keeping tabs on Neal. His pulse picked up when at first glance he saw neither of them. 

Then the crowd on the dancefloor shifted as the music changed from one pulsing beat to another, almost indistinguishable from the first. Peter recognized Neal’s back, white shirt glowing in the dim light, and didn’t ask himself why he was familiar enough with the shape of Neal’s shoulders to recognize him at a glimpse with his face hidden. 

In this case, his face wasn’t visible because he was locked in a passionate kiss with a tall, dark haired man. 

Peter watched, mouth dry, as the other man’s hand slid down to squeeze Neal’s ass and Neal rolled his hips obligingly. Something that he didn’t want to examine too closely shifted in Peter’s stomach, hot and unsettled. 

He strode forward, shouldering between the dancers, ignoring the bump of sweaty bodies against him, until he reached Neal and the other man. “Hey,” he growled. 

The man pulled back, blinked, and looked between them. He was one of those hipsters who had never left college behind - neat beard, lean body, a little older than Neal. Probably wrote poems. 

Peter felt himself scowling and put a hand on Neal’s shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, insincerely.

The man backed off, raising his hands. “Hey, sorry man. No hard feelings. You shoulda said something,” he added to Neal, and slipped away into the crowd. 

Neal turned with an expression that said  _ well _ ? Peter told himself the light was too low to actually see stubble burn on Neal’s cheeks. “You’re embarrassing me, Peter,” he said mildly. 

“ _ I’m embar- _ ” Peter cut himself off. “I hope I don’t have to remind you that we’re here to do a job,” he hissed, under the pulse of the music. “I’m not sure how you expect to look for Vivari with your tongue in someone’s mouth.” 

“Do I tell you how to do  _ your _ job?” Neal whispered back. 

“Yes.” 

“Ah. Fair.” Neal tipped his head in acknowledgment. “However, in this case your jealous boyfriend act just set me back twenty minutes on getting into the back room.” 

“The back room?” Peter repeated. He started as he felt Neal’s hand on his arm. Neal maneuvered him smoothly to the edge of the dance floor and turned him around, so their positions were reversed and Peter was looking at the wall, and unmarked door off the main room. 

“We’ve been waiting for Vivari to arrive, but there is one space we haven’t explored where he may already be.” Neal jerked his head toward the door. 

“Is the back room what I think it is?” Peter asked, resigned. 

Neal made a face, almost apologetic. “Yeah. So you see, the tongue-in-mouth action had a purpose.”

“Yeah I see,” Peter sighed, rubbing his face. God, it was past his bedtime. 

“Plus he was hot.” 

“What?” He lifted his hand, frowning at Neal. 

Neal blinked at him innocently. “What? You didn’t think so?” 

“That’s not the point.” Peter shook his head, fighting the sense of vague unreality that sometimes accompanied speaking to Neal Caffrey - heightened in this case by the underwater lights and the slow beat of the music. “So couples go into the back room to hook up. Could be the perfect place for a quiet conversation about the stock market.” 

“That was my thought.” Neal inclined his head. “One of us needs to get in there to take a look but if you don’t like random twinks calling you daddy and you don’t want me kissing anyone else…” 

Peter groaned. “I get the picture.”

“Try to look less like you’re facing a firing squad.” Neal’s mouth was turned up in amusement. “I’m an excellent kisser.” 

“C’mere,” Peter growled, slipping his thumbs through Neal’s belt loops and yanking him close before he could think too hard about it. He was rewarded by Neal’s eyes widening. He was close enough that Peter heard him draw in a sharp, startled breath. “Ready?”

As always, Neal regained his equilibrium almost instantly, but Peter was warm with the knowledge that he had startled him. Neal hooked an arm around Peter’s neck, and purred, “Born ready.” 

“Then let’s go.” They crossed the dance floor, and Peter pushed open the unmarked door, stepping inside with Neal warm and relaxed against his side. 

The back room smelled like sex, and was even dimmer than the main bar. In the center of the room was a small fountain with a bench beside it. A pair of men were making out on the bench, and a few more couples were leaning up against one wall. Peter forced his eyes away. The opposite wall was lined with a series of curtained alcoves, many of them with their curtains drawn. Except for the low light and public displays of affection, it reminded Peter of nothing so much as the lobby of an expensive accounting firm. 

“I’ve hooked up in back rooms before,” Neal muttered, close to his ear, “but they’ve never had a water feature.” 

“And I thought criminals lead a life of luxury,” Peter returned under his breath, as the door swung shut behind them. 

In the shock of quiet with the pounding dance music muffled through the wall, Peter suddenly heard soft moans and gasps, and the steady slapping of skin on skin, from the alcoves. A flush of heat rushed through his body - embarrassment so intense it felt almost like arousal. He tensed, and Neal shot him a sardonic look, mouth curled -  _ you’re the one who wanted to come with me. _

Peter covered his discomfort with business. “How do we look for Vivari? I imagine poking our heads in to check on people is a faux pas.” 

“Just a bit,” Neal smirked, “Unless you’re offering to join in. Whoever Vivari is meeting, they’re going to be talking, we may be able to overhear.”

Resigning himself to eavesdropping on strangers fucking, Peter cocked his head, listening carefully. There were people talking softly - more than he would have expected. The words were impossible to make out distinctly, just the timbre of speech. They’d have to get closer. “How do we listen without looking suspicious?” 

Neal grinned at him, even more heart-stopping from close range. “We look distracted instead.” With the arm still around Peter’s shoulders, he pulled him close, and used the other hand on his hip to steer him across the room toward the alcoves. 

Even as Peter’s body responded treacherously, he admired Neal’s ease with deception. To an observer, they were just another couple stumbling toward privacy, too tangled up in one another to look where they were going. Their heads were bent together, Neal’s breath and damp against his throat, Neal’s fingers curled at the nape of his neck.  _ In the details, _ he thought hazily, struggling to catch his breath, one of his own hands clutching helplessly at Neal’s back, nose full of the smell of his cologne. 

There was no one talking in the first alcove, just the sound of heavy breathing and some wet slapping. Neal hummed a negative against his ear, and moved them on, making the movement spontaneous enough that Peter stumbled as he followed. In the next alcove someone was gasping, “Don’t stop, don’t stop, oh  _ fuck _ please don’t stop.” 

Neal made a noise in his throat that was almost appreciative and Peter couldn’t help the shiver of heat that went through him. His cock was half hard and aching in the tight confines of his jeans.

“What were you going to do with the other guy once you got him back here?” Peter whispered to distract himself. “Wouldn’t he have noticed if you stalking other people instead of fucking him?” 

“You underestimate my powers of misdirection,” Neal murmured back. “Also, I’m an excellent multitasker.” There was an empty alcove, the open curtain showing a low couch and a small table with a bowl of condoms on it, and then in the next couple of alcoves just the sounds of fucking, no voices at all. 

As they passed the next alcove, Peter caught the lower, steadier timber of conversation. He put a hand on Neals’ chest, halting him, and then pulled it away quickly. His shirt was so thin that it was almost like touching skin. 

“No, I meant it,” someone was saying. “Soon, like I promised.” Peter raised his eyebrows at Neal who nodded back. 

“That’s what you said a month ago,” someone else said, voice heavy. 

“I know, I know,” the first speaker began but his companion interrupted, speaking over him. 

“And you still haven’t told your wife.” 

Neal grimaced theatrically and Peter winced. They shuffled away quickly, Peter unable to miss hearing the first man say. “I know. I’m sorry. I love you,” and his lover sighing, “Goddammit, Diego.” The simple fucking in the next alcove was almost a relief. 

And then, “...if that’s true then the merger could cause significant stock instability.” 

They both froze. 

“Potentially. Of course, it’s not a done deal.” 

“We wouldn't be talking if it were,” someone said smoothly. 

_ Vivari,  _ Peter mouthed, and Neal nodded. They had stopped, standing close to the curtain of the alcove. 

“Say hypothetically someone could delay the merger,” Vivari’s contact murmured. “What would it be worth?” 

“Hang on,” said Vivari and there was a rustle of fabric, the sound of someone moving - all the warning they got before the curtain twitched and Vivari peered around it. Peter just had time to think  _ oh shit _ before Neal grabbed him, pressed him up against the wall and kissed him fiercely. 

His mouth was hot and shocking. A sharp flush of arousal jolted through Peter, gut clenching. He shuddered, fisting one hand reflexively in the back of Neal’s shirt, knuckles pressed against bare skin. 

He hadn’t kissed anyone but Elizabeth in a decade, and it was shockingly different, not just the unmistakably male body against his, but the shape and movement of an unfamiliar mouth. It made Peter feel clumsy, like a teenager kissing for the first time, off balance and turned on. Neal hadn’t been lying about being an excellent kisser. 

It was overwhelming - the familiar smell of Neal’s cologne, the warm weight of his body pressing Peter against the wall, his hand cradling Peter’s head. His lips were soft, his tongue teasing and quick. Their bodies were pressed against one another, hip to shoulder, and Peter was achingly, urgently hard. 

Neal’s torso was lean and firm where Elizabeth was soft. Peter dragged his hand down Neal’s back, his palm was pressed to warm, smooth skin where Neal’s shirt had ridden up, and then further down to the curve of his ass in tight denim. Neal bucked his hips a little and with a dizzying surge of heat Peter felt Neal’s erection rubbing against his thigh. 

He barely noticed Vivari glance at them, snort, and return to the alcove. “I thought I heard someone,” Vivari said, muffled. “But it’s nothing. Please continue. I believe that if we could get, say, a week’s notice on the merger, it would be worth your while.” 

Peter tilted his head for a better angle, sliding his tongue across Neal’s lips, gripping his hips to hold him close. Neal made a soft sound in his throat, and pulled back. Disoriented, hungry, Peter leaned in, chasing his mouth with a noise that he would never admit might have been a whimper. His cock was throbbing in his jeans, making it hard to think about anything else. He could still taste Neal’s mouth. 

Neal held his hand up, fingers curled loosely, and Peter blinked. It took him a hazy moment to realize Neal was showing Peter the bugged watch on his wrist. Grinning madly, Neal mouthed,  _ Got ‘em. _

Peter let himself into the house quietly. It was almost four in the morning. Wrapping up the last details of surveillance was always time consuming and exhausting but the debrief in the van had been particularly excruciating. Diana and Jones had both looked like they were unsure whether they wanted to laugh or to erase the night completely from their memories, and Neal had been unfairly composed and cheerful. 

In their bedroom, El was curled on her side of the bed, snoring softly, her long dark hair fanned out on the pillow. Peter stood staring down at her for a long moment, feeling his ribs ache with how much he loved her. 

He went into the bathroom to undress, shutting the door softly before flicking on the light. Yanking his shirt off over his head, Peter got a whiff of Neal’s cologne clinging to the fabric, and felt his cock throb suddenly. Swearing softly, he fought with himself for a couple of seconds, then shoved his jeans and briefs down around his thighs, and wrapped a hand around his dick. 

He jerked himself fast and hard, biting his lower lip to keep from moaning aloud, shirt clutched in one hand, trying not to think of anything except the physical sensation; not to remember the club, the pulse of the music, the sound of Neal’s laughter, the feel of Neal’s body pressed against his, the taste of his mouth. Neal’s hard cock rubbing against him. His orgasm rushed up like it had been waiting all night, hitting Peter so hard that his knees buckled, clutching the edge of the counter to stay upright as he shot across the tiled floor. 

Gasping, he slumped back against the door, a sort of guilty resignation flooding through him. Carefully, he uncurled his fingers from El’s shirt that smelled of Neal, dropping it in the laundry basket, and shucked off the rest of his clothes. 

He showered and climbed into bed with Elizabeth. She made a soft sound in her sleep and curled toward him as he wrapped an arm around her waist. Peter buried his face in her hair, in the sweet, familiar scent of her, breathing deeply and trying not to think. Sleep was a long time coming. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love! This is my first time writing these characters, so tell me what you think <3   
> Follow me on tumblr at [ stillwaterseas](http://stillwaterseas.tumblr.com/)


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